Fairy Tale Spotlight: The Fairies

I found a rather upsetting poem by one William Allingham. It comes to us from a collection of Irish fairy stories. It rather sadly shows what sometimes happens to a culture that allows fairies to co-exist with them. I'll simply be letting you read through it. I think it speaks well for itself. However, I will say a few things first.

Many in Ireland believe their fairies to be fallen angels. I do too, although I also believe that their spawn are what we know as demons. These angels are every bit as powerful as they were when they were created by God, and they are a bit too much for a human to handle. The problem here is that they out rightly presented themselves to us and often for some very serious and self-serving reasons.

I already knew this had happened in the past. I knew about some demons from Japanese lore that were known to do this. It's horrible. Most people just don't want to deal with it, and I don't blame them. The incident explained in this poem is something we see in fairy tales across the world, and if we are to be wise, we should take it seriously.

I now present to you... "The Fairies" by William Allingham.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather!

Down along the rocky shore

Some make their home,

They live on crispy pancakes

Of yellow tide-foam;

Some in the reeds

Of the black mountain-lake,

With frogs for their watchdogs,

All night awake.

High on the hill-top

The old King sits;

He is now so old and grey

He’s nigh lost his wits.

With a bridge of white mist

Columbkill he crosses,

On his stately journeys

From Slieveleague to Rosses;

Or going up with the music

On cold starry nights,

To sup with the Queen

Of the gay Northern Lights.

They stole little Bridget

For seven years long;

When she came down again

Her friends were all gone.

They took her lightly back,

Between the night and morrow,

They thought that she was fast asleep,

But she was dead with sorrow.

They have kept her ever since

Deep within the lake,

On a bed of fig-leaves,

Watching till she wake.

By the craggy hillside,

Through the mosses bare,

They have planted thorn trees

For my pleasure, here and there.

Is any man so daring

As dig them up in spite,

He shall find their sharpest thorns

In his bed at night.

Up the airy mountain,

Down the rushy glen,

We daren’t go a-hunting

For fear of little men;

Wee folk, good folk,

Trooping all together;

Green jacket, red cap,

And white owl’s feather!

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